[Story by Shawn Alpay, Character Art by Thomas Marrone]
Previously on Star Trek: Loma Prieta…
Episode 1: Shifts – Prologue
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 1
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 2
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 3
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 4
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 5
ACT 6
“Captain Sung! And Mr. Perkins! A pleasure to see you both. But may I ask, why have you diverted from your reported course?”
“Admiral Rothschild?” Sung said, staring at the viewscreen. “Are you here?”
“No, Captain,” Rothschild replied, folding his arms. “I’m back at Starbase 415… expecting you. The installation in which you find yourself is configured to remotely prepare weapons and notify Starfleet Command upon detection of any vessel.”
“Admiral… what is this place?”
“Well, discussion of its very existence is far beyond your security clearance. But seeing that you’re already out there….” Rothschild shifted in his seat, leaning a forearm on the desk in front of him. “The anomaly you see before you appeared there about six months ago. Its nature is unlike anything we’ve yet discovered — it’s somewhat like a wormhole, but… different. We’re calling it the Anchor. And, given its proximity to the edge of Federation space, we’d like to keep it out of the hands of the Romulans, amongst others. So the decision was quickly made to hide it while we conduct further research. You’re currently inside an experimental array of holoemitters, purpose-built to disguise the Anchor’s existence.”
“We’re able to artificially project an entire star system?” Owens asked, incredulous.
“We do have the finest technical staff in the galaxy, Mr…” Rothschild glanced down at a separate console. “Mr. Owens.” Rothschild leaned forward. “Now, Captain Sung, I ask again… why are you out there?”
Sung’s eyes appeared steely. “Sir, we had good reason to believe that the Navras might have come to this location, and I… believed it prudent to research further. Can you tell me why they may have done so?”
Rothschild’s expression darkened. “So you looked through whatever rubbish that virus generated, I gather. Mr. Sung, I can assure you that the Navras was lost with all hands in the Phordon sector two weeks ag—”
“Indeed, Admiral, so it appears,” Sung cut in, speaking quickly. “However, were one to perform a detailed scan of that area, one could also find microdebris from twenty-six other vessels, including our own. And yet almost all of these ships are apparently safe and sound, excepting the Navras. Data produced by the virus corroborates those facts, which is quite the coincidence.” Sung stepped forward, folding his arms, slowing the cadence of his speech. “Can you tell us why this is?”
“Captain Sung, I would prefer to discuss this with you in private. If you wouldn’t mind retiring to a more secure location, I would be happy to—”
“Actually, I would mind,” Sung interrupted. “Whatever you’d like to say to me can be said to the entire crew,” he said, gesturing to the officers collected on the bridge behind him. “Given the situation, I believe further pursuit of secrecy serves little purpose.”
Rothschild sighed, a wry smile on his face as he thought a moment before replying. “Mr. Sung, anomalies similar to the Anchor have popped up throughout Federation space over the last couple of years, one of which appeared in the Phordon sector and produced advanced warships manned by the Breen. Larger and stronger than we had ever seen. And they claimed to be the masters of the Alpha Quadrant.”
“The Alpha Quadrant…?”
“Yes, Mr. Sung. They had come from… another place. And in their place… the Federation no longer existed.”
“Are you talking about… an alternate universe?”
“In a way, I suppose… yes. And when the gateway was opened between our universe and theirs, the Breen streamed through. We closed it, but not before we had sustained heavy losses. ”
Sung’s mind produced a million questions. “Admiral, how have these gateways been opening? And why have you kept this a secret?”
Rothschild simply smiled. “Mr. Sung, we have gained a trove of information through the investigation of these gateways, having secured access to advanced technology that would have taken us decades to develop. And of our galaxy’s inhabitants, only the Federation harbors sound enough reason and logic to judiciously steward such technology. Were our foes to discover the existence of these gateways, they too would attempt to enter them, leading to…” Rothschild gestured out and looked up, trying to think of the right word. “Chaos. And thus, in order to convey an external appearance of status quo, we have had to… replace the losses we sustained at the hands of the Breen.”
“How?”
“From every problem comes a solution. We have simply enlisted the help of… other worlds.” A few beeps emanated from Rothschild’s console, and he looked down at the information it displayed. “In fact… here comes one now.”
“Captain,” Roberts said, tapping at his console, then looking up, “Something appears to be coming through the anomaly.”
“Show me,” Sung ordered.
The viewscreen shifted to a view of the anomaly, and a starship slowly appeared from the depths of the blue swirling mass. As it exited, it became clear that the vessel was of Federation origin — specifically, Miranda-class.
“NCC-32201,” Roberts said. “The USS Daedalus. 135 life signs.” He looked over his console once again, then looked up, surprised. “They’re all asleep.”
“Captain,” Owens offered, “According to the computer, the Daedalus was assigned to deep space exploration some time ago. There’s been no contact with them for five months.”
“Hail them,” Sung said.
“I’m afraid they won’t pick up the phone, Captain,” Rothschild said, taking on the kind of tone one might use with an inquisitive child. “They’ve been administered a light neurotoxin that has put them into a long-term sleep, so they won’t remember their voyage over. When they awake, they’ll find themselves ready to serve, precisely where they last were.” As soon as it was clear of the anomaly, the Daedalus powered up its engines, heading for the edge of the gas cloud at full impulse.
“Except in some other reality,” Perkins said, bitterly. “What about their families? Their contributions to their own universe?”
“You’re missing the bigger picture, Mr. Perkins. Don’t blame us — blame the Breen. And as it stands, they’ll all been reunited with their families in this reality. I can assure you that we’ve targeted a universe quite similar to our own.”
Rothschild looked to Sung with a sigh, folding his hands on the desk before him. “I had hoped to avoid this — but at this juncture, Captain, you have but one option. Stand down red alert and prepare to receive assistance. A research vessel is inbound to your location and will arrive in twenty minutes. With their help, your crew will forget this unfortunate episode, all traces of the virus will be cleansed from your ship’s databanks, your treason will be struck from the record, and you will return to Starfleet service in good steed.”
Sung considered this, then spoke measuredly. “And if we refuse…?”
“Then your ship will be duly disabled, the result of which would be quite deleterious to the health of your crew, given the heavy barium levels currently being generated by the Anchor. Fortunately, your vessel will be quickly repaired and returned to service, replete with a newly-minted complement of your clones.”
“Clones?” Perkins shot back. “They’re outlawed. Are you mad?”
The admiral struck a pious tone. “We do what we must in order to mitigate the threats before us. And as you can see,” Rothschild said, gesturing towards them, “Starfleet has become quite adept at the maintenance of illusion.” He leaned back in his chair. “You have three minutes to make your decision. Rothschild out.”
As soon as the admiral disappeared from view, replaced by a view of the Anchor, Perkins folded his arms and stepped forward. “I’m really not interested in taking the blue pill, and I assume the rest of you aren’t either.” He glanced around at the faces looking his way, which all seemed to offer agreement. “I want options. Mr. Roberts, what are our odds against that weapon array?”
“Well, they’re beyond anything I’ve ever seen, sir. They are vaguely Breen in origin, though they don’t match anything in our database. Pulsar based disruptors, or something close to that. And they look bolted on — so they’re not shielded, but there’s almost two dozen of them. I could take out maybe three or four, but after that, and especially without shields…” He trailed off, his wide eyes and pursed lips telling the rest of the story.
“Can we flee?” Sung said, looking to his helmsman. “Either out of the cloud, or…” He swallowed. “…In?”
“Like Hesser said, sir,” MacKinnon replied, “We wouldn’t be able to activate warp until we’re clear of the heavy barium. At full impulse, it would take us about three minutes that, considering those disruptors, I’m guessing we don’t have,” he surmised, looking to Roberts, who nodded shallowly. “And yet, sir,” MacKinnon continued, placing an arm over the back of his chair and taking on a more consultory tone, “I don’t think he wants to destroy us. It sounds like keeping the Loma Prieta in this reality is his top priority.”
Sung frowned. “Mr. Owens, what more can you tell us about those ring installations?”
“They’re fairly conventional Starfleet design: deep-space research stations, each designed to be maintained by a minimal science crew. But it doesn’t look like anyone’s currently aboar— Oh God,” Owens said suddenly, looking over his console. “Short-range scanners are failing.”
“I’m on it,” Science Officer MacKinnon intoned, keying a few commands into her console.
“What are you doing?” Perkins said, quickly approaching MacKinnon and looking over her shoulder, his arms folded.
“Mitigating the virus, sir,” she replied. “Hesser and I are able to deploy our vaccine in local systems as it jumps from place to place, which is how we’ve stayed afloat this long — but we weren’t able to develop a holistic cure. Though we have determined the optimal physical areas in which to deploy the vaccine for maximum speed of spread throughout artificial systems.”
“Where?” Perkins asked. “And how fast?”
“Well, we took a cue from common cancer, actually, which often metastasizes through the lymphatic system. Hesser determined the power conduit control station to be the closest analogue,” MacKinnon said, gesturing to a diagram on her console. “Deployed from there by my team, the vaccine activates within seconds — though it only lasts for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before subsiding. We had hoped to perfect the deployment, but we discontinued our research once we were, um, ordered to, sir,” she said, glancing at Sung, then down to the ground as she finished.
Perkins looked up from the console to regard MacKinnon, who then locked eyes with him. “Give me your tricorder, Lieutenant,” Perkins finally said, and she complied with a confused look on her face as he tapped his commbadge. “Perkins to Transporter Room 1.”
“Bratt here, sir.”
Perkins moved to an adjacent available station, typing in a few commands, then opening the tricorder and looking it over. “Chief, are you able to get a lock onto those research stations?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a bit dicey, owing to the barium distribution, but I think I can do it.”
“Excellent. Prepare a site-to-site transport from the bridge to each of the three stations. Target the power conduit control room — one person per station. Perkins out,” he said, continuing to work away on the tricorder and the console concurrently.
“You’re not actually thinking about going over there, are you?” Sung said.
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” Perkins replied, slapping the tricorder shut and looking to Sung, his eyes ablaze. Then he glanced around the bridge crew and spotted two other science officers, Lieutenant Casey Koon and Ensign Ashlen Vassilakos. “I need these,” he said, gesturing to them with the tricorder. They produced theirs, and he scooped them up.
Sung stepped towards him. “Sir, as the ranking officer, it is quite inadvisable to send you into harm’s way like this.”
“We’re gonna need as much time over there as possible, Mr. Sung, so I suggest you prepare your best conciliatory tone for when Rothschild calls back — you’ve always been better at that than me. And besides,” he said, clapping a hand on Sung’s shoulder, holding the three tricorders in his opposite hand, “I’m not the captain right now. You are.”
With a final stern glance to Sung, Perkins then proceeded to move past and hand one of the tricorders to Owens and another to Bukowski. “Open those and follow me,” he ordered, keying in a command to his tricorder and walking to an open area of the bridge. “I’m distributing a payload to you now. Have it ready when we arrive.”
Bukowski studied her tricorder as she followed behind, then looked up to Perkins with a troubled look, rubbing her temple. “Sir, I— I don’t know if I’m the best choice for this mission…”
Perkins and Owens looked at each other in silent agreement, then to her. “Mr. Sung’s going to need everyone else at their stations,” Perkins said, “And you have the most intimate knowledge of this thing. You’re going, that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” was all she could muster.
Perkins touched his commbadge. “Perkins to Bratt. Three to beam over.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll get you as close as I can.”
Perkins looked to Sung. “Proceed to get the hell out of here as soon as the array is down. Just make sure to get us back onboard… whatever direction you go.” In a swirl of blue lights, the three of them disappeared from the bridge.
—
Perkins materialized in a darkened corridor aboard one of the rings surrounding the Anchor. He glanced around, then popped open his tricorder, checking the map he had had the foresight to download onto the device. Turning around, he proceeded down the hall and found what appeared to be the power conduit controls. His breath appeared as he moved, as the life support systems on the station had been set to minimal function in the absence of any personnel, and thus the temperature had dropped to nearly freezing. He began to work at the console, scanning the display, then tapped his commbadge after a moment. “Perkins to away team. It’s like I expected: the controls are locked out with top-secret security clearance. No way to deactivate the weapons array manually.”
“I’m seeing the same,” Owens replied.
“I landed about 100 meters off — I’m still making my way there,” Bukowski said, “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Roger that,” Perkins said, tapping his tricorder and removing the hand sensor. “Mr. Owens, proceed with activation of Package Alpha Seven in the root folder of your tricorder. You’re going to need to connect the hand sensor directly to the console. Yeoman, let me know when you’re ready.”
“Aye, sir,” Owens and Bukowski said simultaneously.
Perkins’ attention floated back and forth from his tricorder to the console and back again as he worked. Soon enough, the main display started to flicker, and normal sentences began to turn into jumbles of strings.
“Alright, things are happening on my end,” he said, watching the virus begin to do its work. “Owens, Bukowski?”
“Same here, sir,” Owens said, sounding pleased.
“I just found the console,” Bukowski replied. “I’m starting in now. God, it’s cold down here.”
“Loma Prieta to away team,” Sung said. “Rothschild is hailing us. Will pipe the conversation over to you; you’ll be muted on his end.”
“Got it,” Perkins replied, continuing to monitor the display before him. “We’ll let you know when the transfer is done.”
—
“Roger that. Sung out.” Sung looked to his communication officer, standing over his shoulder, studying the console, which displayed the progress of each of the three away team members’ copies of the virus. “Alright, Ensign… go ahead. Audio only.”
Smith tapped in a command, then silently nodded his confirmation that the channel with Rothschild was open.
“Captain Sung,” came the admiral’s voice. “What have you decided?”
On the comm display, the bar indicating Perkins’ progress filled completely, changing from yellow to green. Owens’ bar was nearly complete, and Bukowski’s had just started, giving Sung a rough estimate of how long he might need to stall.
“Admiral… we have considered your offer. It is a fair one, as I am chiefly interested in the safety of my crew. However, we have… further questions for you.”
“I believe I have supplied all the answers I am either authorized or interested to provide, Mr. Sung. Cancel your red alert, and stand down your weapons.”
“We only seek clarification, Admiral. To wit,” he exclaimed, looking around at the bridge crew, “Some of my officers would like to know if they have an option to leave the ship, if it alone is the source of your concern.”
“Assure your officers that this is a package deal, Mr. Sung,” Rothschild replied with a hint of frustration in his voice. “There’s no picking and choosing who gets to go along with the orders of a commanding Starfleet officer.”
“Understood,” Sung replied, with a glance to the communications console. Owens’ progress bar filled and turned green, while Bukowski’s continued to grow. “Next question, Admiral. Can you assure safe haven for—”
Rothschild interrupted him. “I am not going to answer anything further, Captain. You have thirty seconds to stand down, or I will— wait, what’s this…?” He looked down at his console, then chuckled to himself. “Oh, Mr. Sung… you believe yourself to be a very clever man, do you?”
“Modesty would prevent me from making a statement in those particular terms, Admiral,” Sung replied.
Rothschild worked on his console. “A noble attempt at terrorism, Mr. Sung, but ultimately a failed one.” On the communication console, Bukowski’s progress bar changed from yellow to flashing red, stopping in place just shy of filling completely. The admiral looked up to the screen. “It appears you have made your choice. Thus, I must make mine.” The channel turned to a kind of digital static, then went dead.
On the innermost ring, the station onto which Bukowski had beamed, the alien weapons array activated, each of its seven nodes training their sights on the Loma Prieta.
“They’ve targeted our propulsion and deflector systems, Captain,” Roberts said quickly, his fingers flying over his console.
“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. MacKinnon,” Sung said, as coolly as he could manage, stepping onto the center of the bridge and looking up to the viewscreen. “Mr. Roberts. Fire at will.”
—
TO BE CONTINUED… STAY TUNED FOR ACT 7 NEXT TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22nd.
